


love exists.

by songofthestars



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Kinda, it's going to develop in a healthy mix of, not the AU I was expecting to write any time soon, rated for language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofthestars/pseuds/songofthestars
Summary: On their first meeting, she smacks him right on his crotch with her umbrella.[...]And Erik realizes that what he has seen in her eyes, the seed from which the little Fury is born, is not just sadness — it’s rage. Pure and unadulterated anger.Like his.[This is not a love story's beginning you'd expect.]





	love exists.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language - I daresay my knowledge of English is even basic - so if there's any mistake, please tell me. My feelings won't be hurt, I swear!  
> I wrote this first little chapter on a whim, carried on inspiration's wings. I have some ideas (there's a reason for the anger I mentioned in the summary) that I hope I can elaborate. Reviews are appreciated! Thank you for reading. <3

 

On their first meeting, she smacks him right on his crotch with the umbrella she is trying to open against its will, beneath a coating of autumn rain that chills everyone to their bone and imbues the air with its characteristic smell. The few walkers still around at such a late hour wrap themselves tightly around their jackets and turn up the collars.

The world whites out and Erik can’t help but curse like a sailor and jump on his feets in a ridiculous fashion. Possibly, the girl who attacked his manhood curses even more loudly, and flaunts a remarkable knowledge of vulgarities.

“Oh _shit. Oh fuck fuck fuck holy shit I’m sorry I_ ―”

If it were broad daylight, everyone would turn to watch them. But they are in an isolated area and it’s way past midnight, so nobody cares about Erik’s curses and whimpers.

The pain eases only after it made him see the stars. Behind the mask, his eyes are still watering, but the throbbing soreness soothes after a few minutes of anguish. The girl is still cursing and apologising, and she is holding his elbow almost like she is afraid he will collapse in front of her — which would be pathetic.

Erik takes a deep breath: he suffered far worse things. _Breathe in, breathe out_ : it’s nothing, really.

“Are you okay?”

He blinks and scowls at her. Only now he realizes he towers over her: a slip of a girl in her mid–twenties, a slim Fury all eyes and knobby knees. She would be prettier if she looked _alive_ : but she is all bones and (little) flesh and deep, dark circles under an untamed mane of jet–black hair, a grimace on her angular face.

A broken doll, with cracks in her dark skin underlining her funereal appearance.

Erik wonders if he bumped into a drunkard. But no, she doesn’t reek of alcohol (which would probably be shoddy, considering her poor choice of clothing).

And yet he is struck: her beauty is broken wings as much as her tongue seems to be sharp.

A curious binomial.

The throbbing pain between his legs brings him down to Earth.

Angry.

“What the hell—?”

“I was trying to open this fucking umbrella and—!”

They stop to take a breath.

“Will I have to carry you to the hospital?” she asks with obvious anxiety in her voice.

“There is no need for that,” he grumbles. “I may file a report.”

“For an accident? A bop in the balls—”

“A _bop_? I wonder what is the meaning you give to this word. In my vocabulary, an almost castration is not—”

She bursts into laughter, and her voice is low, somewhat husky — probably the result of longtime smoking habits.

“ _Castration_. So stuffy—”

“Do you think it amusing, young lady? I assure it is not for me. _At all_.”

Sparse flecks of sympathy flare in her eyes; maybe she has finally stopped being so brazen to the point of laughing to his face after she almost deprived him of his balls.

“Again, I’m sorry. I really am. So much… I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You are.”

“And you are a bit of an asshole. But you have all the rights to be angry. You sure you’re fine?”

“Thank you. And yes.”

Her lips curl into an uncertain smile. She stretches out a hand. “I’m Meg.”

He hesitates, since he’s… well, _him_ , and she’s the woman who nearly castrated him. Then he nods in acknowledgement. “Erik.”

They both wear black leathered glovers, and it’s not the only thing that they have in common: there is the handshake, brief but resolute, and the funereal air that she wears with such haphazardness, while for him it’s a shroud that he can’t shake off. A nameless curse which he was born with, and nothing and no one will ever free him of it.

“Do you live around here?”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll be careful to stay away from you if I spot you and I’ve got this.” She tries to crack a joke, but it’s faulty, weak, just a whisper between broken teeth.

He doesn’t laugh, nor smiles. “Understood.”

When they part, her sincere apologies still echo in his ears. And Erik realizes that what he has seen in her eyes, the seed from which the little Fury is born, is not just sadness — it’s _rage_. Pure and unadulterated anger.

Like his.

This likeness petrifies him.

 

 

 

 *

 

 

 

Their second meeting is a far less painful accident.

There is only one place where Erik works that is not also his apartment made more of books and music than concrete: the Café Honoré located on the opposite side of his building. He goes there regularly, and the owner, one Joseph Buquet, is distantly acquainted with him. Actually, all the regular customers (they are spare, for the shop is located in a shady neighbourhood, and also nobody wants to really deal with Buquet) know him. The mysterious man in the mask: a cliché that doesn’t attract people in the reality, but pushes them away. It’s a stain on the soul, a brand on his whole persona, and screams _untouchable_.

But not for _her_. Not for Meg.

For she has something of untouchable too — within, invisible to the eyes. He just feels it.

 

(He doesn’t know it yet, but he is going to love it like tears of light dropping from the stars, like the zephyr’s gentle breeze in a heartless winter night.)

 

And there she is: Meg — unpolished and disheveled and _that anger_ — black–clothed with combat boots and fingerless gloves, like she’s on her way for a punk concert, or an unconventional funeral.

She is the new Café Honoré’s barista.

She almost drops a mug when she spots him.

“ _Holy shit._ ”

Meg curses loudly without regard for the audience.

_It’s her._ The girl with the night in her eyes and the smoke–stricken voice.

“Oh.”

The two of them observe each other warily from afar. Then he makes a step, then another. And another, up to the counter.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

The awkwardness is so sharp that it could cut through the air.

“Are you going to order something by the end of the day?”

“As charming as ever. May I have a black coffee?”

“ _As black as your soul?_ What a cliché.”

He bites his tongue while she brews the hot and bitter drink, his nostrils taking in the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and baked pastries. He really doesn’t want to catch more than the usual attention.

Meg hands him the steaming cup and asks him the customary question: _Anything else?_

_No, thank you._

Erik sits down at his usual secluded table — because it’s _his_ now, as branded as him — but is always conscious of the new barista’s roaming gaze over his tall and thin figure, somehow decaying, so much is his frame skeletal in comparison to every other healthy human being. He doesn’t know if those eyes are looking at him with curiosity or instinctive dislike, and that irritates him.

He hates _not_ to know.

He gets ready for another long work session — being a translator requires focus — and tries to ignore the girl. He is aware he is failing when he realizes he has been reading the same line for five minutes without understanding it.

He sips the now lukewarm coffee and puts the mug down on the table, swallowing the frustration that rolls off him. Maybe it would be better to go back home, hiding and shutting himself in and letting his only way to get out go to hell for some _little girl_ —

“One more coffee?”

Erik looks up from his laptop, meeting her dark and embarrassed stare.

Meg looks like she’s using violence on her pride, but a sincere apology falls from her lips, and it leaves him speechless.

“I’m really sorry. I’d like to buy you something, if you will—”

“Thank you, but I am—”

“At least one coffee? C’mon, one more. Or I could insist for the whole day.”

Erik smirks slightly. “I would get away before you end your last turn.”

“I’d follow you anyway.”

“I would easily leave you behind.”

Meg points at him with an accusing finger. “Don’t underestimate me.”

“I wouldn’t. Armed with an umbrella, you are formidable. I tested it on myself.”

Meg blushes a little, begrudgingly shameful. “I told you, I’m—”

“It was a joke.”

“Ah.” She blinks, incredulous she didn’t got it. “An asshole _and_ a cheater. Your poker face is virtually flawless.”

She makes a nod to his mask — always the same one, black as oblivion. Erik’s fingers brush against the familiar leather.

“The mask is… a necessary curse.”

Meg seems to contemplate those words for a moment. And then, “Why do you wear it?”

“You _are_ insolent.”

“Let me guess: what is under there is supposed to be more frightening than an umbrella mangling your balls, right?”

“Right.”

“Hmm.” Meg crosses her arms, and looks like she is about to say something on the lines of _ah yes?, test me_ , but Erik is glad she is holding herself back. He’s glad he can hide to this odd and beautiful girl the monster he actually is. It would break her in a way she doesn’t know yet.

However, Meg smiles again.

“So, what about this coffee?”

 

 


End file.
